Odin caught Aphelia’s fogged-mirror stare and yanked her close, whispering like a grass snake, “Now of all times, and you’re still in a haze?”

Guilt throbbed first, tight as a knot under her ribs. Then clarity hit like cold rain: the ring wasn’t hunting her, it was chasing Urd’s lingering soul-scent.

The thought stung. Her chin dipped, her face a tangle of shadows and light.

The golden ring landed quiet in her palm. Its glow folded itself, yet sunlight teased out shards of brilliance. Even the two girls in court finery behind her blinked awake, curiosity bright as sparrows, staring at the ring.

“Master, this is…”

“…what, exactly?”

They spoke one after the other, gripping her arms, craning to see. One dared a touch, then jerked back like stung by nettles, hiding behind Aphelia’s back.

They feared it like fire under the skin. Aphelia felt nothing at all in her hand.

“This is…”

She couldn’t name it. She lifted her gaze to Odin and Belldandy, seeking an anchor.

“Call it Rhinegold. Nothing else,” Belldandy said. Her voice rose like a tightening bowstring. She glanced at Odin’s resigned eyes, at the quiet ring in Aphelia’s palm, then sighed and turned to go.

“Fine, Rhinegold… why are you that afraid of it?”

“On it…”

“…a Rule is running.”

A Rule?

Power pricked at the back of Aphelia’s mind like frost. She’d guessed the ring held a domain, but a Rule meant Aether’s law made flesh. If a Rule nested in a ring, was it the avatar of a True God?

The river answered with a rip. Across the water, a blinding crack split Niflheim’s barrier. From it, pure-white mist seeped in like milk poured into ink.

“What is that?!”

“The mysterious one…”

Belldandy’s teeth flashed silver. Her staff flared snow-bright. Before Aphelia could ask, she shot toward the crack like a white comet.

Azure Aether bloomed around Odin with a chilly bloom, a blue-green gust off deep seas.

They raced after Belldandy. That breath from the rift crawled along Aphelia’s skin, a wrong wind under her cloak.

Worst of all, it felt familiar, like a scent from a nightmare.

The crack shattered. Niflheim’s whole barrier tore open with a scream of light. The force slammed outward. Belldandy, at the front, took it full on and was blown back like a leaf in a gale.

The white mist lunged after her, a poisonous tongue tasting prey.

The two girls in finery stepped forward as one. Crimson Flame roared up, a red curtain in the air, and lit the mist like dry paper, a wall of fire hammered into the gap.

With the flames singing, Aphelia rushed in and caught Belldandy.

“Ugh…”

Pain ground her voice down to gravel. Blood bloomed on her belly like a dark flower—an open, wet mouth of a wound.

“Damn it… I don’t do healing. It’ll hurt. Bite down, Miss Belldandy!”

Crimson Fire sprang in Aphelia’s palm, bitter heat like iron in coals. Brutal, but it was all she had—scorch the soul to rouse its defiance, drive the flesh to knit.

The two girls moved like twin cranes in a storm. In their hands, Aphelia’s Crimson Fire twisted through a thousand forms. The breach choked shut. The dead outside recoiled, refusing to touch the red blaze.

Urgency burned. Belldandy nodded, silent, and bit her sleeve like a tether.

Sizzle—

Crimson Fire kissed the wound, grilling flesh with a sound that crawled under the scalp. Pain hit like a wave; Belldandy’s face went bone white. She kept her eyes open, stubborn will a nail hammered into stone.

The girls held, tireless as clockwork. Bracer Gauntlets shimmered onto their arms—the same pair as Aphelia’s, split in purpose: one shield, one blade.

The shield-bearer shaped a firewall, a red seam replacing the torn barrier, holding Niflheim at bay. The dead who tried brute force burned to ash, like moths meeting a forge.

Before Odin could hurl Aether, the blade-bearer had already plunged through the flames. She moved like the Reaper in silk, every step sparking Crimson Fire, every path leaving only ash.

Even at the rear, Aphelia felt refined Aether pour into her like a clear spring. Crimson Fire thickened in her hands, rich as molten ruby.

“Kh—ah!”

She spat foul blood. Crimson Fire winked out. The ragged wound sealed over, and a thread of white-mist power was squeezed free, then burned to nothing in the air.

“Thank you, Aphelia. Stop the mysterious one. Only you can face her… leave the dead to me and Odin.”

Runes peeled from her staff like shards of light, orbiting her in a bright ring. Color crept back to her cheeks. She glanced at the dead battering the firewall and launched herself, a white streak stabbing into their ranks.

“Seriously… finish your lines for once, you oracle!”

There was only battle now.

Aphelia surged forward. The two girls shoved the flames, and the undead formations broke like ice under the heel. They became twin crimson streamers and fused onto Aphelia’s forearms in a flare—her Bracer Gauntlets waking fully.

The white mist snapped like a dog that wouldn’t let go, knifing through the firewall, aiming for Aphelia’s ribs.

The mist was fast. Aphelia was faster.

Crimson Flame slicked her ten fingers. She pivoted, seized the mist, and burned it until it screamed like metal under heat. A figure burst out of it, right into her face.

“Long time no see, Aphelia~”

Soft and proud, the voice brushed her ear like silk from a blade.

Recognition hit like a bell strike. Aphelia’s eyes blew wide. Her fist was already moving.

Ancient Martial Flow—Shattering Fist!

Crimson Flame catalyzed the blow; air cracked, a short half-step blooming into thunder. A whole line of dead went flying like stalks under a storm.

She remembered why that power tasted familiar—cold as graves, cruel as winter, carved into her bones.

“Sig—dri—fa!!!”

The black-robed figure slid aside, floating, smiling with sugar over venom.

“Calling me so sweetly~”

Under the robe, armor gleamed pure white, crystalline as frost trees. While Aphelia chased fate, Sigdrifa had climbed too—higher, harder, sharper.

Pure-white Aether sprouted into crystalline trees in the air, roots hooking into Niflheim. Crimson Fire leaped to meet it, claw to claw, red against white.

Their auras hooked the world like anchors. The battlefield emptied around them; even the dead wouldn’t dare. Any who edged near were ground to dust by colliding storms.

So that was the prophecy.

So that was the “mysterious one” only she could face. Blood-deep hatred didn’t need words.

Crimson flared on the Bracer Gauntlets. The flames deepened, a red well filling. Inside, something birthed itself—power steeped in malice, like a blade dreaming in the dark.

“Die for me!!!”

Aphelia became a streak of crimson and drove both blazing fists straight at Sigdrifa.